Favours and Family Ties
by magentacr
Summary: Sherlock and Mycroft both utilize a lot of favours in their lines of work, but there will always be a time when favours have to be called in. When Molly brings a case to Sherlock's attention, they'll have to call in every favour they know to save the women they care about. In which everyone is a BAMF, Sherlock's Mother ships Sherlolly, and even Mycroft gets a happy ending.
1. Prologue

_AN: Hello again lovelies. So excited to bring you my new story, I've been working on it for months (its all written so I should be able to keep up my chapter-a-day regime) and it's finally finished. This started out with 3 little ideas that merged into a thing that HAD to be written, so here it is. Giving you two chapters to start, since the Prologue is very... Mycroft, and I'm sure you want to get on to the good stuff._

 ** _Warnings and Disclaimer: Rated T for show level strong language, some slightly graphic violence, and mentions of/attempted rape and mentions of rape. Nothing too graphic though. Let me know if you think the rating should be stronger though and I'll change it._**

 ** _As always, only the storyline is mine, the characters and places belong to the BBC and ACD. No copyright infringement intended._**

 _And on with the show._

* * *

 **Prologue**

Some, such as John Watson, might be surprised to learn that the most powerful currency in the United Kingdom is not the Great British Pound, but rather the humble favour. He shouldn't really, as what are pound notes but promissory notes, bearing the heading 'to the bearer of this note I promise the sum of 10 pounds'. But even these promises are meaningless to the rich and powerful of the world, who already have enough money to never have to worry again. And so to these people, an owed favour can have far more value than money. No-one understood this better than Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft may be the most powerful man in Britain, but there is one power that even the most powerful do not have. The ability to keep their power. Prime Ministers and Presidents alike are prey to elections that could strip them of their positions in but a day. Mycroft Holmes had a council to answer to, who at any time if they felt (by majority vote, of course) he was no longer fit to wield the power he did, could strip him of it, just like that. It was to this end, keeping his power, that Mycroft employed the power of favours.

The thing that Mycroft understood, that made him most powerful in his use of favours, was that owing favours was just as necessary as being owed. Some may be content to owe Mycroft a debt, but others would view it as a threat hanging over their heads, looking for any opportunity to pay it off and then looking to remove Mycroft from his position so there would be no risk of it happening again. It was always clear at first glance to Mycroft who these people were, and therefore he would look for the first opportunity to become in their debt. Being owed a favour from the most powerful man in Britain was a valuable commodity, one they wouldn't want to depreciate the value of by making him step down from his position of power.

And thus with a combination of debts owed and to be collected, Mycroft could ensure he stayed in power.

So long as he _could_ pay the debts when those he owed came calling.

"I have a favour to call in, Mycroft" Oberstein announced, closing the door to Mycroft's Westminster office behind him.

"Very well, Hugo, what do you need?" Mycroft looked up, politician's smile in place, but eyes as calculating and cold as ever.

"Your brother." Hugo dropped a file onto the desk in front of Mycroft. "I understand he's approved for MI6 work. This mission requires his specific skill set, no one else will do."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose only slightly looking at the file. An undercover intelligence suicide mission. Other than his passable acting skills and proficiency with languages, there was nothing on this mission requiring Sherlock's 'specific skill set', in fact there were plenty of low level intelligence operatives who would be equally capable of the task. But he knew full well that wasn't the reason Oberstein was asking for Sherlock. Sherlock had recently been involved in a case which lead to Hugo's daughter being arrested for robbery and manslaughter, quite a scandal for the politician. And so he wanted Sherlock dead, killed in duty, no way for it to be blamed on Oberstein. A glance at the man showed he was in no way nervous at Mycroft discovering his ruse, he must have known that Mycroft would see through it the second he opened the file. He was confident that he would have Mycroft's co-operation anyway; he couldn't afford to be seen not filling his debts, not if he wanted to keep his power.

"If you understand my brother's position with MI6, you understand that he is not under contract nor compulsory service. I cannot order him to take a job, he takes those he chooses, and he rarely chooses to listen to me. I can suggest it to him, try to word it in such a way it catches his interest, but I'm afraid you may have asked me one of the few things that's beyond my power to control." Mycroft carefully explained.

Oberstein gave a casual one shouldered shrug that belied his earlier urgency to have Sherlock on the case. "That's all I ask, if you ask him and he goes, consider your debt filled, if he refuses, your debt will still stand."

"Alright then. I shall mention it to him once he's out of hospital and been pronounced fit for duty." Mycroft agreed.

"Of course. Terrible business, that mysterious shooting. But then I suppose making enemies is to be expected in his line of business."

"Quite."

"I have, by the way, a job offer I should like you to decline."

"I decline your kind offer."

"I shall pass on your regrets."

"What was it?"

Mycroft had just finished his email sending his _regrets_ that Sherlock would not take the job, along with several recommendations of more suitable candidates, when his mother muttered "good gracious!", staggering sideways and grabbing at the table for support. Sherlock's 'friend' Wiggins rushed to support her into a chair just before she passed out completely, glancing up fearfully at Mycroft.

"Must'a had too much to drink... Tha's all." He mumbled.

Mycroft raised a disbelieving eyebrow, shutting his laptop and getting up, despite beginning to feel whatever they were being drugged with pulling at him. Wiggins backed away, fearful of retribution, but Mycroft simply moved round the table to slide his laptop back under the chopping board, before practically falling back to his own seat, a single thought passing through his mind before it went black.

 _Don't do anything too stupid with it, Brother Mine._

Mycroft strode the halls towards a meeting he dreaded, his face the picture of calm control, his assistant struggling to mask her concern behind him. His eye caught a flicker of movement round the corner before Hugo Oberstein stepped out before him, and sighed internally.

"Ah Mycroft, I was rather hoping to bump into you," he said, as if he hadn't clearly be waiting for Mycroft to pass this way, "I wanted to talk to you about that favour I asked of you..."

"Did you not receive my email? He said 'No' Hugo." Mycroft replied with a touch of impatience "At any rate, I am on my way to a meeting deciding his fate for killing a man; not the best time to discuss his future job prospects."

"Oh but I think it is." Hugo smirked, gesturing for Mycroft to continue walking and falling into step beside him. "You said before that being a free man you could not order him to take the job, but he's not a free man now is he? Those with MI6 status can serve their sentences for any crime they commit with compulsory service, can they not?"

"They can, but any suggestion of such on my part to the council could be viewed as nepotism, trying to ensure a lighter sentence based on familial sentiment."

"If they feared nepotism they would not be inviting you to this hearing at all. They _need_ your input Mycroft, they have no idea what to do with him, do they? Anyone else would already be in prison, but he's not." Hugo pointed out. "Why is that? Because either he'll break out and expose holes in their security, or he'll be killed by those he helped put in there, which with his celebrity status, would not go down well with the commonwealth. They're looking to you to give them another option, and this is it. They get what they need, I get what I need, and you'll be free of your debt and your brother's troublemaking. Everybody wins."

It was exactly what Mycroft knew and feared he would say, because he also knew Hugo was right. Even Sherlock would probably call it a more desirable result. He didn't like it though, even if the small calculating smile he flashed Hugo said differently.

"Keep thinking like that and you'll go far, Hugo."

The man preened at Mycroft's praise, excusing himself poorly disguised delight.

"I want a full, but discreet investigation of Hugo Oberstein. Leave no stone unturned." Mycroft instructed his assistant the moment he was out of earshot. "I want him out of office at the earliest opportunity."

"Yes sir." She agreed, walking away as Mycroft stopped in front of the door, behind which his brother's fate would be decided.

If Oberstein was unhappy when he found out that his mission had been cancelled - that Sherlock had been recalled when England faced threat once again - it was nothing compared to how he felt the next week, when all his dirty little secrets were aired, his position and power was stripped from him. No longer able to take his revenge through his power over Mycroft Holmes, he would have to find another way.

A way to teach them both a lesson.


	2. Chapter 1 - The Troubled Pathologist

**Chapter 1 – The Troubled Pathologist**

"Molly, I need to see the bodies of William Ferris and Joan Reed right away, the murders are clearly related, it's shocking Scotland Yard missed it."

Sherlock burst into the morgue with his usual urgency, buzzed on his latest case. John was busy with baby stuff, and since he didn't have him to bounce ideas off or be admired by, he was quite glad to be working in the morgue with Molly, who was the next best thing.

"Okay" Molly sighed as she pulled her hands out of the corpse she was elbow deep in, before going over to the sink to strip off her gloves and apron and wash her hands.

Sherlock frowned, eyebrows coming together as he glanced down at her desk.

"The paperwork has already gone through on them hasn't it?" He asked.

"Yeah, yesterday. Since when did you care about paperwork?" Molly pointed out.

Sherlock's frown deepened. "You usually protest to wheeling the corpses back out after the paperwork's gone through."

Molly sighed again, throwing away the paper towel she was drying her hands on and turning back to him, though her eyes were downcast.

"Yes, and then you say something nice about my eyes or hair and I get them out for you anyway. We both know you'll get your way in the end anyway, so can we just skip that part?" She glanced up at him then, eyes pleading, before walking around him towards the body storage.

"But I enjoy that part. As do you, under normal circumstances." Sherlock pointed out, turning on the spot to follow her with his eyes. At his words she stopped, turning to face him with her mouth hanging open, her eyes giving him a classic 'how do you know?' look.

"Come now, Molly. You're a decent pathologist and I'm a consulting detective, let's not play dumb. As you already pointed out, we both know I always get what I want, so why try and protest in the first place? I'm hardly subtle in manipulating you with compliments, and you're not stupid or needy enough to fall for it, so why let me get away with it? It's not a lack of backbone, you put me in my place quick enough when you feel I need it. Your smile is genuine when I do it, so I can only surmise that you enjoy it. You enjoy making me work for what I want and you enjoy seeing what I'll come up with to get it. So when did you stop enjoying it?" His last words were soft with concern as he took a step towards her.

Her eyes dropped away from his, examining her nervous, twisting hands "I haven't. Not really, I just..." She trailed off with a shrug and a small step back, before turning and busying herself with a clipboard, looking down the drawers for the ones he wanted.

Sherlock walked closer slowly, his eyes scanning her with more attention than he'd applied to her in years. She was wearing more layers of even baggier clothes than she usually wore, and next to no makeup. She moved with less confidence, holding the clipboard close to her chest like a barrier. A suspicion grew as he reviewed her behaviour since he came in, how she had been careful not to brush past him when she walked round him, the distance she was keeping between them, not making eye contact. And then how she had washed her hands for longer than usual. His eyes hardened and jaw clenched as he put it all together; Classic signs of sexual harassment or assault.

"Who was it? Someone at the hospital? What did they do to you?" He asked sharply, coming to stand by her at the drawers while keeping a safe distance.

"No it... It's just some jerks on the train, it's nothing." Molly assured him, though her voice hitched with emotion.

"Doesn't sound like nothing." Sherlock growled in response.

Molly said nothing, not trusting her voice, and pulled the drawer open between them, hoping to redirect Sherlock's attention back to his case and away from her, but his eyes never left her face. He reached over the body to place a hand on her arm, and she couldn't help but flinch slightly, causing him to yank his hand back. He softened his voice and tried again, awkwardly. "Look, if you won't talk to me, at least talk to someone down the Yard. Lestrade, or even Donovan if you'd prefer another woman..."

But Molly shook her head, now actively blinking back tears.

"They can't do anything. They're homicide detectives, they're not going to waste their time on a bit of cat-calling, even if it is particularly vulgar."

Sherlock studied her again then said with certainty "It's not just cat-calling though is it?"

Again she shook her head, bringing a hand to her face to wipe away a tear.

"It was to start with, but it's escalating. Crowding around me, even when the tube's not that busy, making them impossible to ignore, and then today the ringleader he... He made a grab at my bum as I was getting off. I know it wasn't hard enough to bruise, but I still feel it when I sit down." Tears came in earnest, and Sherlock dug in his pockets and handed her his handkerchief, which she dabbed her face with before continuing. "I know it's probably silly of me to think it but... You hear the stories. It starts out just like this, and the police say there's nothing they can do and next thing the girl gets abducted and raped, or ends up on my table and-"

"When did you do the autopsy?" Sherlock cut in. He'd seen the autopsy papers on her desk, a young woman raped to death.

"Last night." Molly whispered. "You probably think I'm so silly getting all worked up over-"

"You think it might be the same group?"

Molly's breath caught in her throat and all she could do was nod, knuckles going white gripping his handkerchief.

"I'll look into it." Sherlock decided with a nod.

"You will? But... But this hardly a two on your scale, it could even be nothing, why would you-"

"You were prepared to save my life before we were sure it'd be necessary. Call it my way of returning the favour." Sherlock assured her, holding his hand out for her to return his handkerchief, which he stuffed into his pocket. "Now, I believe I asked to see two bodies and I'm only looking at one."

Molly had to admit she slept far better that night knowing that Sherlock was on her case. But that didn't stop her small shriek in surprise when she opened her door to leave and found herself in the shadow of 6 foot of consulting detective.

"Sherlock!" She gasped "What are you doing here?"

He rolled his eyes at her stupid question and stepped aside, gesturing her to proceed him down the stairs. "Escorting you to work, obviously. I need a look at these ruffians if I'm going to deduce their intentions. Probably best we don't look like we're together though, I'll fall back at the station and watch from a small distance, you just behave as you normally would."

"Okay" Molly agreed, gripping her bag strap tightly, nervous about getting on the train and seeing those men again. Her nerves grew even more when they reached the station and Sherlock melted back into the crowd, leaving her alone. Her hands shook and she took some big calming breaths as she stood on the platform, trying to prevent herself from hyperventilating in panic.

 _Sherlock is with you, he won't let anything happen to you._ She reminded herself, shifting her gaze about the platform to catch sight of him.

"Still here." His deep baritone rumbled behind her, low enough that she only just caught it on the noisy platform, before the tunnel was filled with the a rushing sound of the train pulling into station, brakes squealing and whooshing until it came to a stop. The crowd surged forwards even as those disembarking fought against the tide to the stairs. Molly moved forward with the crowd, towards the same car she always rode in, though the last few days she'd been considering moving further up. She almost thought she had got the wrong one once she got in though, as the men that had hounded her were nowhere to be seen. She checked her watch but it was definitely the same train.

"They're not here." She told Sherlock, dropping the pretence of being strangers and standing next to him, all the seats being taken anyway.

Sherlock nodded. "What do they look like?"

She described them as carefully as she could, and he took off, through the rarely used doors between cars to search the whole train. He returned a few stops before hers, shaking his head. She let out a humourless laugh.

"Typical, the day I have someone with me they're not here... Probably running late or something, maybe the next train."

"Maybe, if they do get this train for any other reason than to follow you." Sherlock mused.

Molly's face blanched. "What do you mean?" She asked.

"I don't think it's a coincidence they aren't here today." His faraway gaze suddenly sharpened on Molly. "Those are the same trousers you were wearing yesterday." He observed.

Molly shuffled uncomfortably. She didn't think it was wrong to get two uses out of a pair of trousers before washing them (though her tops she did daily) but his pointing it out made her feel self-conscious . "Well they weren't dirty and-" she cut off with a shriek, pulling away as Sherlock abruptly put his hand into her back pocket. A few other passengers looked over briefly, before quickly glancing away again, the way they did when she was harassed. "What was that about!?" She demanded, her voice embarrassingly higher.

"It wasn't the memory of his fingers you could feel when you sat down, it was what he put in your pocket." He held up a pill-sized electronic device between his fingers for her to see. "Tracking device, the type MI6 use to track agents in the field in areas where communication is difficult."

Molly stared at the tiny device in astonishment, briefly wondering if Sherlock had one when he'd been on his mission, before thinking about the repercussions of one being in her pocket.

"Why would anyone want to track _me_?"

"Well presumably they already know of your movements in public in order to orchestrate being on the same train as you regularly, so there's clearly something they want to know about your movements out of the public eye." Sherlock reasoned.

"But _why_? It's not like I have anything to hide." Molly insisted.

"You hid me." Sherlock reminded her remorsefully, looking down, no longer able to meet her eyes "Moriarty's return may have been a hoax, but there will always be those out there who want to hurt me and those... Close... To me. In all likelihood they plan to wait until you're somewhere private and then abduct you to use you against me. I am sorry."

He looked back up expecting to see Molly even more frightened than she had been, expecting her to want to get away from him as quickly as possible, to hate him. Instead he met the same steady determination she had shown the night before his fall, the love, devotion, and trust she held for him.

"But you'll stop them. You always do."

"Whatever it takes." He promised, before looking up at the passing signs as they pulled into station. "This is your stop, isn't it?"

"Oh! Yes... Aren't you coming?" She asked as he made no move towards the door with her.

He shook his head, herding her out of the train "I need to pay my brother a visit, find out how MI6 technology fell into the hands of the criminal classes. I'll see you later." He leaned out the car, and gave her a quick peck on the cheek before the doors closed, leaving her gaping as the train pulled away.

* * *

 _AN: Okay guys, hope you like so far, please drop me a review to tell me what you like/don't like/ anything else you want to say, even if it's just hello :)_


	3. Chapter 2 - Holmes' Network

**Chapter 2 – Holmes' Network**

"Those security checks get longer and more tedious every time I come in here, Mycroft. I would have thought they'd have learned that I'm your brother by now." Sherlock bemoaned striding into Mycroft's office before Anthea could go in and announce his presence.

"Just because you're my brother doesn't mean you're not here to kill me." Mycroft said casually, not looking up from his paperwork.

"Touché. Though if I was going to kill you I'd do it at your flat, not the office. Slightly less security and longer before they'd come looking for you." Sherlock gave him an angelic smile, making himself comfortable in the seat across the desk.

"Thanks for the heads up." Mycroft replied dryly, before finally glancing up at his brother. "So, what brings you to my office then? I assume this isn't a social visit."

In answer Sherlock slid the tracking device across the table to his brother, who frowned at it, then regarded Sherlock again, waiting for an explanation.

"You have a security leak. This was planted on Molly Hooper by a group of men on the tube. I assume they're not yours, your security details at least attempt to be subtle."

Mycroft's eyebrows shot up at that.

"No, not mine. I had received reports that she was having some problems, but this is more serious than I had imagined."

Sherlock's jaw clenched briefly in anger. "You were aware of her harassment and didn't order your man to step in?"

"Woman, actually, for her comfort. I instructed her to step in if things got any worse, but it hasn't been necessary."

"But it will be." Sherlock said grimly "Increase her detail, and find that security leak."

"Is that an order?" Mycroft scoffed

"A strong suggestion." Sherlock clarified. "Unless you want me rooting around your business and your personnel files."

"I'll put Anthea on it." Mycroft said.

"Good. I have my own leads to follow" Sherlock stood up abruptly, ready to leave.

"Before you go, I should mention that Mummy is expecting you to pop in at some point his week. They've had a couple of nocturnal disturbances recently and I promised her you'd look into it."

"Not again!" Sherlock groaned, with an exaggerated eye roll. "I went last time! And I have far more important things to do then identifying the fox or badger that's been going through their bins."

"Need I remind you that last time our parents saw you, you drugged them and ran off without an explanation? You owe them, Sherlock, the least you can do is help settle their concerns, however trivial." Mycroft scolded.

Sherlock shrugged, feigning unrepentant, but couldn't hold his brother's stern gaze.

"I'll go once this case is resolved." He conceded, carefully avoiding his brothers discerning eyes on his way out.

 _Mind the Gap. Mind the Gap_.

The doorbell still made Sherlock fight a smile. When he'd decided to pay their train obsessed friend, Howard Shilcott, a visit, he'd almost decided to stop by Bart's and invite Molly along again. But given what he was here to see, he decided against it.

"Mr Holmes! What brings you here?" Howard asked in surprise when he opened his door, stepping aside to invite Sherlock in.

"I need to see some security footage from yesterday on the tubes." Sherlock announced, staying outside.

"I'm sorry, I already wiped the tapes from yesterday." Howard told him, looking genuinely disappointed he couldn't help.

"But I assume you keep anything that may be of use in a criminal investigation? Suspicious behaviour, violence, harassment?"

"Oh, of course! For a case is it?" He grabbed his coat and hat from behind the door and stepped out to join Sherlock. "All the tapes are still at the security office" he explained, leading the way out the building and down the road to the tube station and the security office inside. "There's a fair bit here, what exactly are you looking for?"

"Harassment, around 7:48 on the Central line near St Paul's."

"Eastbound? I remember thinking there was something about that... Usually I wouldn't bother keeping a minor incident like that, but I just had a feeling, y'know?" Howard rambled as he went through the disks, put one in, and opened the video file.

On overhead camera showed Molly on the tube, seated as it was a weekday and therefore there were less tourists clogging up the system. But a small crowd were around Molly, Sherlock counted six men, just as she'd described them. There wasn't enough detail captured by the CCTV for him to deduce much about them, except a confidence in their body language and the way they worked flawlessly as a group that said this wasn't the first time they'd done something like this, and that this bullying was only the start of it. They made a tight circle round her, one sitting on the seat next to her, his arm round the back of her chair in mockery of a lover, the others standing imposingly over her. There was no sound on the file and the images too blurry to lip read, but the laughs and gestures of the men and the look on Molly's face was enough to tell him she hadn't been exaggerating when she called their cat-calling vulgar. To her credit Molly appeared to have a tight reign on her emotions, actively ignoring them, starring straight ahead with no hint of fear or tears, only open disgust. That changed when she stood up, and the man next to her stood also, grabbing her buttocks with one hand and her hip with the other, pressing himself up against her back as the other men crowded in. Molly's mask broke in a gasp of fear, before she elbowed her way out of the throng of men, who made no effort to stop her after a nod from their leader, and out the door, a few fearful tears escaping.

"Hang on, isn't she that girl that came with you last time?" Howard suddenly asked, to which Sherlock nodded stiffly. "I knew there was something about her! Is she your girlfriend?"

"If you'd observed properly last time she was here you'd have seen she was wearing an engagement ring, and it wasn't from me."

"Was, so she's not now? Waiting for her to be properly over him before making your move, are you? Good plan."

Sherlock chose not to dignify that with a response, instead refocusing on the important matter at hand.

"The video stopped there, did you not see where the men got off?"

"No, sorry Mr Holmes, I didn't think it was important at the time. But I'll let you know if I see them again." Howard offered.

"Please do. And could you send me the clearest picture you can get of all six men too?"

"On it." Howard said, turning back to his computer, as Sherlock slipped back out into the rush of the tube station, and back out onto the street.

Waiting outside, a familiar figure in a dirty hoodie, jacket and tracksuit bottoms, held up his phone in greeting.

"You summoned me, Shezza?" Billy asked.

"Punctual as ever Wiggins" Sherlock smiled, pulling out his wallet and handing over £50, and the tracking chip.

"Wha's this?"

"Tracking device. Don't worry, it's not the cops, just some other people I need distracted." Sherlock assured him.

"And what happens when they find me?" Billy asked suspiciously, fiddling with the money, as if weighing if it was worth the risk.

"I doubt anything will happen. But if you see any of these men - " Sherlock pulled out his phone as it dinged with a text, and his fingers flew over buttons, forwarding it to Wiggins and Mycroft " - then ditch the chip, keep an eye on them, and text me right away. Understood?"

"Got it." Wiggins said, stuffing both Money and chip into his back pocket and taking off into the crowd.

Sherlock gave him a 70% chance of losing the device when he pulled the note back out of his pocket, probably in one of his regular drug dens, but it mattered not. They'd soon figure out it wasn't Molly with the chip, if they hadn't already.

* * *

 _AN: Thanks to those who have already started following and reviewing this story, great to have to in board._

 _I forgot to mention after posting the prologue, but the eagle-eyes amount you might have noticed that the name Hugo Oberstein is taken from a character in the original story's by ACD, though since I only found the name by googling and have not read the story he was featured in, any resemblance to the character is unintentional, so don't get tripped up by what you know about him. I'm just rubbish at coming up with names._


	4. Chapter 3 - Message and the Delivery

**Chapter 3 –** **Message and the Delivery**

Sherlock detested waiting. It grated at him, waiting for someone else to find him a lead to follow. This was exactly why he didn't usually take silly little cases like this.

He pulled his dressing gown closer around him, slumped in his armchair, staring at his phone. Nothing. He considered calling John, but they had been pretty strict with their rules since the baby was born. John, or more often Mary, would get in touch when John was free to go on a case with him, which worked out about twice a week, despite the fact the bags under his eyes suggested he would be better taking the time to sleep. And he was free to pop round for dinner whenever he liked, as long as he left his work at home, lest John be tempted. Of course they would make exceptions in case of an emergency, such as if Sherlock was in need of medical aid, but not severe enough to require hospitalisation, or if lives would be at stake if he didn't go after an armed and potentially dangerous suspect, which they insisted he never do alone. This was neither of those things, and yet Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he shouldn't be calling. After all Molly was friends with the Watsons as well, surely they would care if she was in trouble? And Sherlock (for reasons he didn't want to examine) would feel much better if she was staying in their spare room...

No, not a spare room anymore, it was a nursery now. And if Molly was at risk, staying at the Watsons' would put the baby at risk, and that was far more risk than he was comfortable with. He wouldn't call the Watsons, he'd wait until all this was over and tell them, and John could berate him for not letting them know their friend was in danger so they could help, and Mary would let him rant, but would understand as she always does.

But then what to do about Molly? He may have asked Mycroft to up her security detail, but that didn't mean he trusted them to keep her safe. He could stay over himself, having stayed in her flat a few times before as a bolt hole, but a little voice in his head that sounded like John Watson said that Molly might not appreciate being kicked out of her bed after the traumatic week she was having, (Especially after how upset she was earlier when he visited the morgue after Shilcott's and confirmed that the girl she'd autopsied was most likely attacked by the same people.) And there was no way he could sleep on her sofa; it was far too short for one thing. And sharing her bed, queen sized though it was, was out of the question.

He was just internally debating the pros and cons of having her stay at Baker Street, when his phone chirped with a text alert. He launched out of his chair, scooping up the phone and swiping across the screen to read it.

 _Jarrow Road, Hackney, 2 guys from pic. B_

Sherlock smirked, slipping out of his dressing gown and letting it fall where it may as he replaced it with his coat and scarf and flew down the stairs, out onto the street. Naturally a cab appeared the moment he raised his hand, and he slid in, giving the cabby the address and settling back, his fingers steepled against his chin as he digested this development and the likely resulting scenarios. He had to admit he'd miscalculated, he had expected them to stop following the tracker signal once it veered off Molly's usual route, knowing it'd been found. Either those controlling it were particularly stupid, or they meant for him to find it and now thought they were tracking him, or didn't care who had it as long as they were connected to him and could be used against him.

He called the cabbie to a halt once they entered Jarrow Road, walking the last bit of distance towards the crack house Billy was no doubt heading to, his eyes scanning alleys along the way. He was almost there when he saw legs sticking out from behind a bin, and a face soon peeked out at the sound of his approach, but not Billy's. He was a familiar face though, Jeff Mason was an old dealer of Sherlock's back in those dark days, though judging by the now middle aged man's styled hair, clean shaven face and designer brand clothes as he stepped out from behind the bins, business was still booming for him.

"Shezza! Thank goodness you're 'ere... Not with the cops are ya?" The man called out.

"Would I let them catch me in a place like this?" Sherlock returned, stepping around the bins to take in the scene. The legs did belong to Billy, sprawled out unconscious, a mess of split skin and freshly blooming bruises. Sherlock crouched for a better look and was relieved to see from the shape of the bruises that they were only inflicted with fists and boots, no weapons, makeshift or otherwise. Overall, nothing that John couldn't patch up, though he'd still be feeling it for days.

"'E was coming over to check out a new batch for me, y'know make sure it's not been cut with anyfin dodgy like, he's good like that is Bill." Jeff started to explain without prompting "Anyways, got past the time I was 'xpecting him and I hears a scuffling outside, so I takes a look out one of the windows and see three blokes on 'im, don't know what started it."

"Three?" Sherlock asked, remembering Bill's text saying two. It was unlike Billy not to notice something.

"Yeah, and they were big blokes they were. My boys had already left by then though, after the deal went down this morning, and no-one else in the den were in a fit state to come help, so there were nufin' I could do till they left. You musta missed 'em by just a few minutes, I just took his pulse, y'know made sure he was still alive, when you arrived. For a second I was scared they were comin' back." Jeff chuckled nervously.

"They won't be bothering you again." Sherlock assured him, gently lifting Billy's eyelid to check pupil dilation.

"You know who they are then? Some case o'yours is it?"

"It's come to my attention before this." Sherlock agreed, standing back up. "Do you still stock Morphine?"

A wide grin spread across Jeff's face at the mention of business "Of course, how much do you need?"

"Just 10mg." Sherlock told him, fishing out his wallet and holding out a couple of notes.

"That all? I know you got a soft spot for opiates, wouldn't want you to run out too soon." Jeff insisted

"10 will do."

Jeff sighed and took the money, disappearing into the house to his stash, while Sherlock sent off a quick text.

 _Baker Street, 40 minutes, bring med-kit. SH_

"Anyfink else, Mr Holmes?" Jeff asked on his return, slipping Sherlock the vial.

"Just a cab." Sherlock replied, hefting Billy into his arms, glad he was so slight. The waif of a man groaned in pain, spluttering a few coughs before slipping back into unconsciousness.

"Right."

"You could have told me the medical emergency wasn't you, you git, Mary's having kittens." John sighed, entering the flat with his trusty med bag and seeing Sherlock perfectly fine in his 'thinking pose' on his armchair, and Billy sprawled out, clearly beaten unconscious on his sofa.

"You wouldn't have come if I'd said it was Billy, you would have had me dump him in the A&E." Sherlock pointed out, opening his eyes to watch his friend snapping on a pair of latex gloves and getting to work examining his patient.

"You're right there. How long has he been unconscious?" John pulled up his eyelids to examine his pupils.

"He's roused on and off from the pain, but around an hour."

"Almost certainly concussed then. If he's not awake by the time I've cleaned and stitched the rest of his wounds, we _are_ taking him to the hospital, got it?"

"He'll be fine." Sherlock waved him off, but still watching carefully as John cleaned his cuts and prepared the sutures for a large one on Billy's cheek. Of course he knew how to do them himself, he had had to suture some of his own wounds during his two year mission, but John's were so much neater, more precise, with a level of skill Sherlock couldn't help but envy.

He was nearly done stitching the wound when Billy awoke with a yell of pain, pushing himself back on the sofa away from John in panic.

"Stay away from me!"

"Relax Billy, it's only John fixing you up, he's not here to hurt you." Sherlock calmly assured him, without leaving his chair.

"Never can tell with 'im" Billy muttered, calming down but giving John a suspicious look, which the doctor returned, pulling the last stitch a tiny bit tighter than necessary before cutting it off, causing Billy to wince, before his head fell back with a groan "He shouldn't be 'ere anyway, they said..." The rest of his sentence was lost on a coughing fit that seemed to be agony. John's brows pulled together as he pressed a hand to Billy's chest, causing the groaning to morph into swearing and cursing the doctors abilities.

"One, maybe two broken ribs. They really did a number on you, whoever _they_ are. Good news is they haven't punctured your lungs or you'd be coughing more and it'd be bloody. You should be fine." John assured him with a clap on the shoulder, getting up to look at Sherlock for an explanation.

"Fine! I'm in ag'ny! Can't you do anyfin?"

"I'll write you a prescription for painkillers - what's that?" John forgot all about reaching for his prescription pad when Sherlock's hand beat his to his bag, pulling out a sterile needle at the same time as pulling a small vial from his pocket.

"Morphine. You recommended painkillers, it'll take a while for the prescription to go through, this will do for the meantime." Sherlock explained, drawing the liquid into the needle and giving the end a few flicks to get rid of bubbles before handing it over to Wiggins, who happily injected himself.

"Where did you get it?" John asked, jaw tight with a strained smile and his fists clenched at his sides.

"Not in the flat. But by all means search it again." Sherlock shot back sarcastically.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, closing his eyes and taking a big calming breath before speaking to his friend again. "I'm not saying -"

Sherlock's phone started vibrating on the table beside him before he could get properly into what he was saying, and he stopped, realising he still didn't know what case had brought him here and that now might not be the time. Sherlock picked up the phone, frowned at the caller ID and put it to his ear.

"Mol-"

" _SHERLOCK!_ " The phone screamed in Molly's voice, before a muffled crunch and the call ended, leaving a paler than normal detective and doctor in its wake.

* * *

 _AN: It's all kicking off now. Let me know what you think in the reviews, and thanks to everyone who already has :)_


	5. Chapter 4 - The Scene of the Crime

_AN: A little earlier than I normally update, but you were all so generous with your follow/favorites and reviews, and I'm feeling generous too._

* * *

 **Chapter 4 – The Scene of the Crime**

Sherlock was the first to snap out of the shock, launching into activity, tapping away on his phone with one hand as he snatched up his coat with the other.

"Billy, stay as long as you need, just tell me quickly and _precisely_ what they said to you when they attacked you."

"Thanks Shezza. They said "This is a warning for Mr 'olmes, what 'appens when he involves people he shouldn't. This is between the Boss, and The Holmes." Billy willingly supplied, as his eyes slid shut, settling in to sleep off the damage.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he took in the message, mouthing parts of it as he committed it to memory while wrapping his scarf around his neck. Then he was all motion again, flying down the stairs and out into the road, hand raised for a cab. He didn't pay any attention to whether John was following or not, until his friend slid into the taxi next to him, his med-bag in one had and phone in his other, pressed to his ear.

"Mary, are you alright? Where's Nat?... Just go sit with her ok? Don't let her out of your sight, maybe keep a gun close... I don't know yet, but Billy was attacked and now something's happened to Molly and I don't want to take any chances... Yeah he's here, I'll get the full story out of him in a moment... No but I'll keep you updated... Okay, love you, bye." John hung up and shoved the phone back into his pocket before turning to Sherlock, who was staring pensively out the window, fingers tapping in impatience.

"So? Out with it, what have I signed onto this time?"

Sherlock heaved a put-upon sigh and launched into his explanation.

"I visited the morgue yesterday for the Ferris and Reed case and noticed that Molly was upset about something. Some men on the tube, specifically, serial rapists, sexually harassing her. Except it was more than that, the ringleader planted a tracker on her, MI6 tech, not something you'd expect to find in the hands of common criminals. There's something much bigger going on here, someone wants my attention for some reason, and they've got it." His jaw clenched in frustration.

John was silent a minute, his mind working over what he had been told, then his lip quirked a smile.

" _You_ noticed Molly was upset about something?"

"Yes, I'm a detective, that's what I do, I notice things."

"Not feelings, and especially not Molly's. Unless you've deliberately been an ass to her all these years. What's the saying? Treat 'em mean..." John pushed, his grin growing.

"Whatever you're implying, you're almost certainly wrong. Now, can we focus on the matter at hand?" Sherlock snapped.

John turned his head to the window, trying to conceal his amusement, before refocusing on the case.

"So what's Billy got to do with this? Why did they attack him?"

"Because he had the tracker." Sherlock explained "I knew they'd realise Molly no longer had it when it deviated from her normal routine, and hoped they'd leave it at that, instead they used him as a distraction while they made a move on Molly and to send a message."

"Then how did they know where to find Molly if she no longer had the tracker?"

"She had it on her over 24 hours..." Sherlock left the sentence hanging, looking at John expectantly.

"... And Molly is a creature of habit. Right." John finished for him, growing more serious looking out the window as they pulled into her street. "But why go after _her_?" He ended in almost a whisper.

Sherlock pretended not to hear. He didn't want to think about that, just like he didn't want to think about John's previous deductions about his behaviour to Molly. The answers were too similar.

"'Ere we go lads, that'll be..." Before the driver could turn round and finish his sentence, a twenty fluttered down over his shoulder and two car doors slammed behind him.

The two strode purposefully towards the flat, until a dark car parked in the shadows across the street caught Sherlock's eye. A dark car with shattered windows. What had happened was obvious even from this distance, yet he veered towards it for a closer look, causing John to follow. Sure enough two of Mycroft's agents, one male, one female, lay limp in their seats, blood congealing on their suit fronts.

"Jeez... Yep, they're dead." John announced after checking for pulses. "Not the most precise of shots, but enough to kill point blanc. Couldn't have been more than an hour ago going by residual heat." He looked round to see Sherlock tapping away on his phone. "Who...?"

"Her security detail, courtesy of Mycroft." Sherlock supplied, sending off the text to his brother, before turning away, heading into Molly's building with even more urgency.

His tread softened and slowed as he reached her apartment door, swinging loose on it's hinges.

"No sign of forced entry. She has a peephole she's meticulous about using and wouldn't have opened the door to strangers at this time of night. They picked the lock." Sherlock whispered.

"Wouldn't she have heard it?" John whispered back, carefully peeking around the doorframe into the room, giving a nod that it was clear.

When his friend didn't answer, John glanced back at his friends face, but was put off asking any further questions by the stony look there.

"I'm gonna go check out the rest of the flat." He said instead.

Sherlock nodded in assent, his eyes already scanning every inch of the room, crouching to follow the tread marks in the carpet, picking up a wineglass with a broken stem from beside the table, and taking in the angle of he stain.

"All clear." John announced, coming out of Molly's bedroom. "No sign on Molly either, d'you think they've taken her?"

"Undoubtedly" Sherlock muttered, examining the doorway next to John, leading into her bathroom.

"What are you seeing, Sherlock? Walk me through it."

Sherlock sighed and turned round, pointing at the sofa.

"She was sitting there when they came in, didn't get up at the sound of her lock being picked, but did hastily shove her trashy romance novel under a sofa cushion, thinking it was me. Instead, three men came into the apartment."

"Three?"

"The first two lingered by the door, you can see where their heavy treads sunk into her fairly new carpet. Sizes 8 and 10 feet. The third advanced towards her, she stood up quickly and spilt her wine, then dropped the glass. Stupid, she could have used it as a weapon."

"Sherlock." John reprimanded.

"Instead she dodged around the sofa," Sherlock continued over him "He followed, and trod on the glass breaking the stem. She ran towards the bathroom, probably thinking she could lock herself in, but he grabbed her just before, you can see where her nails have scratched at the doorframe, trying to get a grip to pull away. He started dragging her towards his colleagues, but she gave him the slip... Here." He was now moving in sync to his words, following her path around the room. "And ran... To the kitchen. See where she's pulled drawers open in a hurry and not closed them properly? Now she's looking for a weapon, while dialling with one hand. She grabs a knife and turns to face her attacker..." He spins round and his eyes dart about, then ducks under the table and pulls out her mobile and a large kitchen knife, clean. "... But she didn't get a chance to use it. The fight ended here rather suddenly. Probably they found a way to sedate her, but not before the call connected. She dropped the knife and her phone and they got kicked under the table when the others came to drag her away." His eyes followed drag marks visible only to him back to the door, and remained fixed there as he fell silent.

"Right well... We should probably call the police at this point, yeah?" John suggested, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his contacts for Greg.

"If you must, but I wouldn't recommend it." Sherlock answered, also looking at his phone as his text alert pinged.

"Wh.. Oh, the threat right? You think it would put Greg in danger if we called him in?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "You think they're dumb enough to attack a police officer? Ignore the threat, it's just posturing. No I'm not interested in calling the police because there's nothing they can do and they'll only get in my way trying. Molly said as much herself."

"Even if she did say that, and it's not just you hearing what you want to hear, I doubt she meant for it to be applied in this situation." John argued as he pressed his phone to his ear "Greg! Hi, listen, you need to come down to Molly's place..."

"I don't hear what I want to hear." Sherlock muttered, pacing slightly as he waited for John to finish his call.

"Police are on their way" John finally announced.

"Time for us to leave then."

"What? No, Greg's going to need to talk to you, you need to tell him what's going on here."

"No, what I need to do is find Molly, and I know just where to start."


	6. Chapter 5 - A Family Matter

_AN: Reposted for edits._

* * *

 **Chapter 5 – A Family Matter**

If there wasn't more pressing matters on his mind, Sherlock might have appreciated the irony that when he normally visited with his impassive mask in place he was faced with lengthy security checks to get into Mycroft's office, but when he stormed in with a face set to kill, and a war veteran with a large unchecked bag at his heels, doors just opened before him.

"Mycroft!" He roared entering his office, fully prepared to rake his brother over the coals for not taking his warning seriously and providing better security for Molly.

"Brother Mine, so glad you could join us." Mycroft returned civilly, nodding to the figure sat across from him, with his back to Sherlock. Not that Sherlock needed to see his face to recognise his Father.

"Oh for the love of... What is he doing here?! Molly has been kidnapped and you invite me here for-" his rant came to an abrupt halt as his father turned to face him, tears spilling down his cheeks. It didn't take a huge leap in deduction to tell why. "Mummy too?"

At his Father's solemn nod, Sherlock held his arms open to the old man, who leapt up at the rare offer from his son, but was quickly disappointed when Sherlock started to pat him down instead, quickly finding the tracker in his pocket and slamming it down on his brothers desk.

"Been into the city recently with your dry cleaning?" He asked, not waiting for an answer before turning back to his brother, all but snarling "I told you to fix your leak, not allow more holes in your shoddy security."

"Don't you _dare_ try to blame this on me, brother mine." Mycroft returned, teeth bared in a politician's smile, but his eyes hard. "This is because of you, one of your cases, your art of rubbing people up the wrong way has endangered the lives of those you care for, _again_. Well done."

"At least I made an effort to catch them when it was all just threat, what have you done but sit on your fat arse all day, getting your minions to bring you cake!" Sherlock lashed back.

"Boys! Please don't fight. Not now." Their Father interceded, sad and pleading. "We're family, and we need each other, now more than ever."

"Of course. Apologies." Mycroft conceded, offering his brother an insincere smile. But Sherlock didn't see, his eyes flickering without sight, chasing down information in the halls of his mind palace.

"The Holmes'" he muttered.

"Oh good, you do remember what family you belong to." Mycroft couldn't help snakily responding,

"No, no, John, you remember" he spun to his friend, and John instantly recognised the manic gleam in his eye of clues clicking into place "The message Wiggins delivered. 'This is between the Boss, and The Holmes.' He said. At first it didn't make sense, no one says 'The Holmes', I had to assume he was just an idiot with no respect for grammar - well he still is, a spectacular one, but not in the way I thought."

"Yeah, go on." John prompted, trying to move Sherlock on from the insulting stage.

"He didn't mean 'The Holmes', he meant 'The Holmeses '. The message given to him was on paper, to be given verbatim, but whoever wrote it didn't know how to pluralise a name ending in 'es'. Simple as it is. " He spun back to his brother victoriously "So this has as much to do with you as it does me, ' _Brother Dear_ '."

"That's quite a leap to make based on he-said-she-said and a 'the' isn't it?" Mycroft frowned in return.

"No, he's right, it does make sense." John cut in, his brows drawn in thought. "He plays it close to his chest about your parents, even I didn't know they existed until recently. Usually his enemies target Mrs Hudson as his maternal figure - even Moriarty did, with all his resources and information about Sherlock. But you... You're every bit the Mummy's boy." John finished with a smirk.

Mycroft spluttered at the indignity, looking over to his Father for support, who merely shrugged his shoulders and tried to hide his watery smile. Allowing himself a small sigh in defeat, Mycroft schooled his expression once again before speaking.

"Very well. I shall factor that as I investigate-"

"Since when do you investigate, Mycroft? It requires legwork, or did you think this could be solved from behind a desk? No, give me a list of all your people with clearance and opportunity to pull off something like this, let _me_ question them. I'll have your leak by morning."

"Very well. Interrogation room 2 in the basement should be available, I'll update your clearance and have all viable suspects report to you as soon as available." Mycroft agreed. In light of the seriousness of the situation, he received only a stiff nod from Sherlock as he left the room, rather than his usual attempts to irritate him through slang. After he had gone, Mycroft turned to his assistant, hovering at the back of the room, nodding after his brother.

"If you wouldn't mind, my dear."

His assistant turned pale, but nodded anyway, slipping from the room.

"You don't honestly think... Not Anthea?" John asked in surprise.

"Is that the name she gave you?" Mycroft asked, his lip quirking in amusement. "But, no, certainly not. Neither does Sherlock, or he would have asked her to follow him."

"Then why-?"

"Well someone has to keep on eye on him. You don't think I was going to let him question my people without supervision did you? Anyway, it's been a long night, and shall only get longer. I believe you have a family awaiting your return, Dr Watson."

"Right." John nodded at Mycroft's clear dismissal, turning to leave the office, but not without glancing back on his way out, seeing Mycroft moving to his Father's side and laying a reassuring hand on the old man's shoulder.

So much for the Iceman and self proclaimed sociopath, John mused.

Molly awoke slowly, head throbbing and fuzzy, thoughts and images intangible. Her mouth was unbearably dry, making her crave a glass of water. She'd have to go get one, once the heaviness left her limbs and mind and she felt capable of moving again. She must have overdone in on the wine, she thought.

The wine.

A stain on the carpet and broken stem flashed into her mind, and then it all come flooding back, along with a vague awareness of her surroundings - mostly the feeling of cold steel around her wrists. Her heart started to pound and her breath came in short sharp gasps as fear leeched back under her skin. She hesitantly opened her eyes, and found a brilliantly familiar and yet strange pair of eyes set in a lined face, staring back at her, making her jerk upright and away.

The old woman straightened from her crouch, holding her palms out in a peaceful gesture, or as close to one as she could with similarly shackled hands and a water bottle clutched in one, which she promptly held out for Molly to take.

"It's alright dear, I'm a captive just like you. Drink the water, you look like you need it."

Molly nodded, taking the bottle noting the intact seal, reassured that it wasn't tampered with, and opened it up, taking a few large gulps and half draining it before looking back to the woman who had seated herself on the cot next to her - the only piece of furniture in the small bland room they were being kept in. The woman's lips looked as dry as hers felt, and she held the bottle back out to her.

"Thank you, dear." She said with a small smile, wiping the mouth of the bottle on the bottom of her shirt before drinking in small delicate sips.

They sat in silence until the water was finished, when the old lady daintily folded her legs, turning to her young companion.

"So, you have questions, I presume?"

"Where are we?" Was the first thing that came to Molly's mind, and flew straight out of her mouth.

"Oh, some godforsaken warehouse somewhere I imagine. London, certainly. East London maybe, felt like we were heading east in the van they dragged me here in, but I can't tell you much more than that I'm afraid, they had me blindfolded." The woman explained, sounding remarkably calm for someone who was accounting their kidnapping. Bored even.

"You came in conscious? Did they say what they wanted with us?"

"No, but it almost certainly has something to do with my sons, I imagine. Always getting themselves into trouble, those two. But don't worry, I'm sure they'll be here soon enough to sort this all out." The woman explained, patting Molly's knee and smiling reassuringly. Molly tried to smile back, getting another glance of the woman's eyes and suddenly realising why they looked so familiar, and suspected she knew exactly who this woman meant by her sons.

"Your sons? You mean.. You're...?" She couldn't seem to force the question past her lips. The older lady had no such problems.

"Violet Holmes," She introduced herself, holding out a hand for Molly to shake, "and you must be Molly."

* * *

 _AN: Oops, sorry this is so late, I nearly forgot altogether today. But then I didn't get an reviews for the last chapter, so no reminders. Not wanting to sound greedy, but I know you're out there guys reading this, so if you could just drop me a few words to say what you you think. I enjoy reviews so much, it's the reason I keep writing, and I've been so excited as I've been writing this for the last six months to hear what you think, to not hear much at all if anything makes me wonder why I bothered._

 _But a big thanks to those few who have reviewed so far, and for all the follows and favourites._


	7. Chapter 6 - Indentities and Allies

**Chapter 6 – Identities and Allies**

"H...how do you know who I am?" Molly stuttered. She knew she shouldn't be surprised, this was the woman who gave birth to Sherlock Holmes after all, and yet she was every bit as different from her son as she was similar to him. It was disorientating.

"Well who else could you be?" Mrs Holmes chuckled "Sherlock is hardly surrounded with female companions, is he? And if my suspicions about why they've brought us here are correct, you're definitely the only one who could fit the bill."

"What's that then? Why... Why do you think they chose us?" Molly asked hesitantly, wary of the sparkle in the old lady's eyes that reminded her of Sherlock when he was up to no good.

"Well, we're the women they love most, of course. Sherlock's chosen well with you dear, although I do worry about Mykey. Flattering though it is for a Mother to know her son still loves her, I do wish he's find himself someone to settle down with."

Molly opened and closed her mouth several times, no sound coming out, not even sure what she'd say if she could. She didn't know where to begin with the woman's statement that she was the woman Sherlock loves most. How had she even arrived at that conclusion? Perhaps Sherlock had misled her, she wouldn't put it past him to lie about having a girlfriend to get his Mother off his back about it. He'd done worse for less.

"I... I don't know what Sherlock's told you, but I'm not... I mean we're not... We're just friends. I think. He... He certainly doesn't care about me as much as you seem to think." She shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant, though she couldn't help nervously pushing her hair back behind her ear. Mrs Holmes smiled sadly, catching Molly's hand and giving in a squeeze.

"Oh I know, he can be a bit slow where love is concerned. Stubborn, really. I realise he might not have told you how he feels yet, but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel those things. He does, believe me."

"How do you know?" Molly asked in a small voice, barely daring to believe it, but unable to fight the swell of hope.

"Because I'm his Mother. And because he calls you Molly." She answered, in the same 'isn't-it-obvious' tone her son was so good at. And as usual, it left Molly reeling to keep up with the leaps of logic involved.

"That's... My name."

"Yes. Your first name." Mrs Holmes' voice glittered with amusement "Haven't you ever noticed his habit of calling people by their last names or first and last? Even those he's fairly close too, like Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. It's one of the many ways he distances himself from people, so he can't be hurt by them, delicate soul that he is under all that..." She waved her hand, unable to find an adequate word, but Molly understood perfectly. "The only people he calls by their first names are those who don't matter enough for him to bother or those who matter too much for him to bear to push away. And I rather believe you fall in the latter category. Don't you, dear?"

Mycroft almost regretted sending his faithful assistant to watch over Sherlock's interrogations. Things ran far less efficiently when she wasn't by his side, anticipating his every need. Not that she hasn't emailed him his itinerary as soon as his alarm rang, but he was already running 5 minutes behind, as he strode down the corridor to interrogation room two.

Apparently Sherlock had sniffed out 2 moles in his organisation last night, though only one had to do with the current case. The one who was - Thomas Oxbridge, Mycroft remembered the name - was still seated the interrogation room, blood running down from his clearly broken nose, hand cradled to his chest with clearly visible broken fingers.

"I do hope you weren't as rough on all my people you interrogated, Sherlock. I still need them to perform their duties."

Sherlock looked down dispassionately at the man beside him, before a small smirk twitched his lips.

"Not my handiwork, brother, and not from the course of interrogation."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose, and he followed Sherlock's gaze behind him, where 'Anthea' was leaning against the wall near the door. Far from her usual composed self, she looked distinctly ruffled, her clothes creased and flecked with dried blood, her cheeks pink from exertion and her knuckles scraped and bleeding. Mycroft couldn't help but smirk. She was so fiercely loyal, she took others disloyalty as a personal insult.

"Well in that case, good work. Perhaps you'd like a few hours reprieve, my dear, time to clean yourself up a bit."

Anthea nodded gratefully, too tired for words, and let herself out. Mycroft knew better than to ask Sherlock to rest until this was over, so turned to their unwelcome guest instead.

"Who do you work for?" He demanded.

"Why would I... Tell you." The man struggled to push out, his voice congested by his broken nose.

"In other words, he doesn't know." Sherlock drawled, sincerely unimpressed with that man's attempt to sound bravely loyal.

"Indeed." Mycroft concurred. "No matter, I'm sure his watch has already told you everything you need to know."

"Limited edition Breguet, only 100 made, came out this week." Sherlock reeled off "Bit expensive for someone of his pay grade. Unlike the cheap knockoff suit. A gift then."

"Gift, payment, bribe, same thing in the end." Mycroft agreed. "And what a coincidence that one of the few London jewellers stocking them is just down the road."

"I'll have the sales records within the hour." Sherlock turned to leave, then stopped at the door, flashing a sinister smile at the traitor looking gobsmacked in the chair "Thank you for your cooperation."

Outside the official government building, Greg Lestrade was waiting, leaning against his police car with a couple of hours worth of cigarette stubs at his feet and a fresh one in his hand, which he swiftly dropped and ground out as Sherlock approached.

"Almost thought you'd never get done in there. John called and explained everything, what can I do to help?"

"I sincerely doubt there is anything you can do to help, _Detective Inspector_. You've been of no help thus far, and I can't see how that's going to change." Sherlock replied coldly, brushing past him to the side of the street and holding out his arm to hail a cab. His arm was yanked back as Lestrade turned him back so they were face to face, an even more concerned look on his face.

"Hey, What do you mean I've been no help thus far? I went to Molly's right away last night when John called it in, but you were already gone. No surprises there, but you're not usually _this_ difficult. What's got into you?"

"Emily Hill." Sherlock shot back accusingly, yanking his arm away from Lestrade.

"What?"

"Emily Hill, the girl who was raped to death earlier this week. Homicide is your division isn't it? Or is your brain simply so small you forget all your cases the moment they're over?"

"Yeah okay, I remember." Lestrade held up his hands placatingly, "But what's she got to do with Molly and your Mother? You think it's the same people?"

"I know it is, working for someone else. But that's beside the point." Sherlock waved it off, "Did you know Miss Hill tried phoning the police twice to report her harassment, before she turned up dead?"

Lestrade's feet shuffled guiltily, not needing the reminder of the imperfections of the system and he couldn't quite meet Sherlock's eyes. "It came up, yeah, when the case was handed over to me, but-"

"I won't let the same happen to Molly." Sherlock cut him off, "I can handle this myself, without dealing with the incompetences of Scotland Yard." He turned back for the road, but was stopped once again, this time by Lestrade stepping round in front of him.

"Oh come off it! You're not pissed at Scotland Yard, Sherlock, you love it when we can't solve something, so you can jump in and show off. No, you're pissed because this has got personal, and you don't like how it feels. By all means take it out on me, I'm used to it by now, but do it while we work on this, together, yeah?"

Admitting Lestrade was right was not only loathsome as it was, but in this case also meant admitting to having _feelings,_ and that was even worse. One look at Lestrades face though, and Sherlock knew trying to convince him otherwise was a lost cause by now.

"Breguet will be more likely to release their sales records to a DI, I suppose."

"Okay then. Let's go." Lestrade couldn't help but flash a smile at having won this round, and pulled out his keys, unlocking the car and heading round to the drivers seat.

"You know I hate travelling in police cars." Sherlock grumbled.

* * *

AN: Thank you so much my lovely guests, just a reviewer, CordeliaC, hatondog, tallergrass and amherendeen for your lovely reviews on my last chapter :) you make my day.


	8. Chapter 7 - Paper Trail

**Chapter 7 – Paper Trail**

"Oberstein." Sherlock muttered, his eyes unfocused and flickering slightly as he called to mind the case. Lestrade tried and failed to see round him, in the cramped office at the back of the jewellers. They had been given permission to view the records but not take them or copies away without a warrant. Almost as soon as the sales assistant had left the room, all 6ft of Consulting Detective had rushed in front of him, hunching over the small laptop and almost completely obscuring his view.

"Melissa Oberstein? From 'The Con Gone Wrong.' She's still in prison."

"Uh, ridiculous name." Sherlock huffed, "I didn't think John had posted that one on his blog."

"He showed me the draft when it all got hushed up, had to tell him he wouldn't be able to post it. Shame, one of his best, I think."

"Overly romanticised drivel then. But, no, not Melissa precisely. Possibly a relative, ring any bells?" He shifted so Lestrade could see, his finger hovering over the name.

" ** _Hugo_** Oberstein. Yeah, he's her father, he's the one responsible for hushing it all up, they say. Works pretty high up in the government, or worked, rather. As if having a convict daughter wasn't enough, some other stuff came out last year that got him dismissed, I heard."

"And there's the connection to Mycroft." Sherlock murmured victoriously, smirking, before straightening up. "Back to Westminster then. My brother has some explaining to do."

As they turned to go, Lestrade's phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and checked the screen as they walked out the shop, then grimaced.

"Sorry, Sherlock, I gotta get back to the Yard. You'll be alright without me, yeah?"

"As I recall, you were the one who insisted on tagging along in the first place, I never needed your help." Sherlock reminded him, though there was no bite to it, which was as close to a thank you as Lestrade ever expected.

"Yeah, well, I'll drop John a text anyway, see if he can meet you over there."

"For goodness sake, I'm not a child you know! I don't need a babysitter." Sherlock complained as Lestrade climbed into his car and closed the door, before rolling the window down to get in one last jibe.

"I've seen how you get when your brother is about, and yes you do."

"You sent your little brother on a _suicide mission_ to return a **_favour_**?!" John ended in a shout.

Really, Lestrade should have been more worried about John than him, Sherlock thought. At least his blogger was only in his shouty stage of anger, not his calm voice and I'm-going-to-enjoy-giving-you-the-beating-you-deserve smile. Sherlock on the other hand couldn't care less why Mycroft had offered him that mission; it had been his choice to accept it, and anything was better than letting his mind rot inside of a prison full of people he put there.

"It was far more complicated than that, John. You have to understand - "

"Irrelevant." Sherlock broke up the building argument, fun as it would be to watch John break Mycroft's nose, he couldn't forget that finding Molly and Mother was of highest priority. "Mycroft continue telling your story."

Mycroft paused a second, lips pursing slightly in irritation at his little brother ordering him about.

"There's not much left to tell. Once I had acquiesced, I had Al- Anthea run a thorough and discrete investigation on Oberstien and uncovered the necessary information to end his career. If I remember correctly the information was released the day of your exile and return. I imagine both were quite a blow to him."

"So in revenge for taking his job and his daughter from him, he's taken your mother and your..." John left the sentence hanging, giving Sherlock an innocently questioning _look_.

"Molly. So it would seem." Sherlock replied, giving John a stern look back.

"The records you requested, sir." Anthea interrupted, appearing over Mycroft's shoulder - surprisingly stealthy for a woman in heels, who'd only had one power nap in over 24 hours - and put down a handful of files.

Mycroft's hand had barely twitched toward the files before Sherlock snatched them up, flicking though and muttering to himself as he made his way round the desk, dropped some back in front of his brother, ignoring his frown, as he opened the top drawer, took out a pack of drawing pins and made his way over to the wall to start pinning up the remaining pages.

"Sherlock, that panelling is mahogany for goodness' sake!" Mycroft finally protested.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't realise your decor was worth more to you than Mother's life." Sherlock replied sarcastically with a glare as he continued sticking pins in his brothers wall, seemingly at random, with some pieces higher than John's reach and some nearer the skirting board. It was only when John ventured closer and read a page - real estate details of a factory owned by Hugo Oberstein in Greenwich - and noted its relative position to another similar page that he realised what Sherlock was doing. In that great head of his this wall was a London map, like the one he regularly pinned up at home, and he was marking the positions of Oberstein's properties on it.

"That's a lot of factories for an ex-politician to own." He commented.

"Business and politics have a lot in common, it's not unusual for a politician, ex or not, to make a few investments." Mycroft explained, his eyes on the pages in front of him "Says here he went into textile production. But yes, that is a lot of factories."

"So we can safely assume that one of them is a front, it's where he's keeping Molly and Mother. But which one?" Sherlock muttered, leaning close to the wall, reading more than the addresses this time. Some he moved on from quickly, others he lingered over, eyes and lips moving fractionally as he digested and stored the information.

"This one is the newest, he got it only a few weeks ago, just before all this started." John pointed one out, looking to Sherlock for verification.

"That rather depends on your definition of 'when all this started', doesn't it?"

"Every unit has a solid paper trail; production records, employment records, payroll." Mycroft contributed. "He's covered his tracks well, which means he's been planning this a long time, since his previous plan backfired, I'd imagine."

"Right." John sighed, rubbing his chin in thought and staring at the pages. Nope, meant nothing, not to him. Sherlock was probably seeing all kind of patterns in them though, like he could in anything. "Couldn't you do the boot print thing again?" He asked his friend suddenly "You said there were footprints in Molly's carpet."

"Impressions where their boots had sunk into the carpet, not anything I could run tests on. Now shut up and let me _think."_ Sherlock snapped at him, though before he could go back to the files in from of him, his text alert rang out in his pocket. A victorious smirk slid across his face as he read the contents of the message.

"There you are." He muttered, yanking a piece of paper off the wall, and making for the exit "Come along, John."

"Wait, Sherlock." Mycroft rose from his chair, ready to chase his brother down if his order wasn't obeyed. Fortunately it wasn't necessary, and Sherlock turned in the doorway, impatience and reluctance written across his features. "You're certain that's where he's holding them?"

"Yes, of course I'm certain. My informant on the central line just text me, those thugs working with Oberstein just got off a train at Shepards Bush station, less than a 5 minutes walk from this factory. It fits, they're here!" Sherlock snapped, shaking the piece of paper for emphasis.

"Then I'm coming with you." Mycroft replied calmly, turning to the portrait behind his desk and releasing a mechanism under the frame, causing in to swing forward, revealing a safe set into the wall.

"Don't be ridiculous, you don't do _legwork_." Sherlock protested, though he returned to his brothers side as the safe opened. Intrigued, John moved closer as well.

"I make exceptions for family. As you well know." Mycroft reminded his brother with a raised eyebrow, as he passed over an unfamiliar looking pistol, which Sherlock immediately checked over.

"A tranq gun, really Mycroft? What use is this in a fire fight?"

"Very useful, actually. The cartridge is only recently developed, contains a fast-acting muscle relaxant that renders the target immediately immobile until the sedative kicks in. Far more legal and less paperwork than just shooting our way in." Mycroft explained.

"Then how come John gets a real gun?" Sherlock continued petulantly, watching as Mycroft held out the browning to it's previous owner.

John stared at it in shock before taking it reverently. He hadn't seen it since the Magnussen incident, and hadn't dared inquire about it either.

"Because _he_ can be trusted to use it only when absolutely necessary." Mycroft threw over his shoulder at his little brother, before turning back to John "Besides, I've been meaning to return it for some time anyway. It is registered in your name after all."

"Thank you." John replied solemnly, knowing damn well that he had never registered it, and grateful for Mycroft's doing so. Little did he know that Mycroft had in fact done it soon after he shot the cabbie. He took a breath to reign his emotions in and checked the clip quickly and efficiently before tucking it into the waistband of his jeans.

"Violet!" Molly whispered urgently, gently shaking the older woman awake.

Neither was sure how much time they'd spent in their little cell. The windowless room with its artificial lights constantly on left them with no sense of night or day, so they'd taken turns sleeping on the little single bed while the other kept watch. While Molly had been asleep some food had been delivered - a meal deal each from a local supermarket, sandwiches, crisps and more water. Violet said it had been quick, the door was opened, the bag of food thrown in by a single person and then the door was closed again, so she hadn't bothered to wake Molly. But now was different. There were voices outside the door as a key turned in the lock, and Molly thought they should both be awake for whatever was coming.

"Hmm... What is it, dear?"

She had barely sat up when she found out what, as the door opened and three of their captors entered. Molly recognised two from the tube, but not the man in a suit between them, with his deep crows feet and neatly trimmed brown hair greying at the temples. It was he who spoke.

"You'll be coming with me now, Mrs Holmes."

Violet brushed down her day old clothes as she got out of the bed and to her feet with as much dignity as she could muster, and Molly felt a sense of dread in her stomach.

"Why? Where are you taking her?" She asked, standing too and stepping slightly in front of Sherlock's mother defensively.

"To get ready for her sons' arrival of course. They'll be here soon." The man in the suit said with a sinister smile. Violet put a hand on Molly's shoulder, meeting her eyes reassuringly as she gently pushed her aside, marching straight up to the man in the suit.

"Then you should be very afraid."

The men broke into raucous laughter.

"We'll see. Bring her." The man in the suit said, turning to leave the room. One of his cronies grabbed Violet by the upper arm, steering her after him, though she went unresisting in dignity.

"Violet!" Molly called desperately after her, partly in fear for the older woman, and partly selfish fear of being without her.

"Don't worry doll," the last man to leave, the one who had taken the lead in harassing her on the tube said over his shoulder, his eyes appraising her in a way that made her feel violated "I'll be back for you."

The door closed again, and Molly was left alone with her tears.

* * *

 _AN: Thanks again to my reviewers. To the guest who pointed out my mistake with the plurals: Oops. My understanding was that since you can't put a second s you just do the apostrophe, but apparently that everything but plurals, didn't know that. Amazed my grammar-nazi husband/beta reader missed that. I'll have to go back and change that._

 _Also, in answer to the guest reviewer Angel: There are 3 chapters and an Epilogue left after this one, although a follow up one shot is already clawing its way into my mind._


	9. Chapter 8 - A Formidable Duo

**Chapter 8 – A Formidable Duo**

A dark car pulled up to the curb, a discreet distance from the textile factory. The ride over had been tense, with John on the phone to his wife explaining the situation, Mycroft's assistant firing off texts to arrange backup, and Sherlock and Mycroft familiarising themselves with the factory blueprints and their weapons. Once they reached their destination however the car fell briefly into silence as they watched the factory.

"No workers wandering about, no sounds of machinery, no delivery vehicles. This is the place." Mycroft observed.

"Of course it is."

"No visible security, either, not even cameras. Though there's no telling what we'll find inside." John contributed, slipping easily back into soldier mode. "What's our entry point?" He leaned over to look at the blueprints.

"The front door, of course. Good manners and all." Mycroft gave a sardonic smile.

John's brow creased. "Well I don't suppose they'd expect it, but we'd lose the element of surprise fairly quickly."

"What element of surprise?" Sherlock snorted "They took our Mother and Molly as bait to lure us here, but didn't offer a ransom, why? Because they know our reputation and knew we'd track them down anyway. They were counting on it. And then they _let_ themselves be seen wandering about Shepard's Bush to tell us where to come. We have no element of surprise - they're expecting us! Let's not disappoint shall we?"

And with that, Sherlock Holmes was done waiting, letting himself out the car and walking straight out towards the building's entrance, leaving John and Mycroft scrambling to catch him up. He paused just outside the door for them though, meeting his brother's eyes and nodding to the door handle, that even John could see wasn't locked. Mycroft nodded back, and then side by side they pushed through the doors.

All John's army training told him they should take it slowly, keep low to minimise themselves as targets, check every room they pass for hidden assailants and take every turn with caution, backs against the wall and peering around first to make sure the coast was clear. So either MI6 did things differently, or the Holmes brothers had skipped class that day.

It was a sight to see, John had to admit, the two of them in their tailored suits, striding perfectly in tandem down the halls, not even slowing down for corners or crossroads. They didn't need too, their sharp senses picked up any movement and they neutralised any threats before they had a chance to react. It was all John could do to keep up, giving a visual inspection to the unconscious bodies on his way past to make sure they were truly out. He noticed three things; firstly that both brothers had exceptional aim, secondly that whatever was in those tranquillisers was as effective as Mycroft said it was, and lastly that he recognised these men from the picture Sherlock had shown him of the men who had harassed Molly. Once five out of six were down, he saw a set of double doors ahead and knew that this was it. As if a switch marked 'stealth mode' had been flicked, both men ahead of him melted against the wall to avoid being seen through the windows in the door, and John followed suit. Once they were all crouched in front of the door, Sherlock flattened himself against the ground, tilting his head sideways to see underneath.

"There's a chair in the center of the room" he murmured, only just loud enough for his companions to hear "I can see Mummy's feet tied to the legs. Oberstein is next to her, facing to door, waiting for us. Definitely him, his shoes must cost more than John's entire wardrobe."

John ignored the dig - it was probably true anyway.

"And Molly? Or the other guy?"

"Inconclusive. It's a big room, I can't see all of it, and it's dangerous to speculate."

"I'd be willing to speculate he has some kind of weapon, probably trained on our Mother." Mycroft replied as Sherlock raised himself back into a crouch.

"A proper hostage situation then." John said, letting out a hard breath. "Well, there goes our weapons, first demand is always to lay down arms."

"No."

"Sherlock - "

"No, John. Stop thinking like a soldier, this isn't some warzone negotiation where the hostage is nothing but a bargaining chip in a larger plan, they _are_ the plan." Sherlock ranted in a half whisper. "He wants to hurt us through them. If we go in there and lay down our weapons he'll shoot her anyway while we're helpless to stop it."

"So what do you suggest? Shoot first the second we walk through the door?" John snapped back.

"No, too risky." Mycroft interjected "We don't know what else we'll find in there, and I won't risk Mummy getting caught in the crossfire."

"Then it's a good thing we have a crack shot with us."

* * *

The double doors flew open violently, almost slamming into the wall behind it. Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes walked in side by side, one pair of eyes fixed on their mother and her captor, the others darting about the room, lingering on the other man slipping out a back door, itching to follow.

"That's close enough." Oberstein announced when they were not three meters into the room, halting them.

"Where's Molly?" Sherlock demanded to know.

"All in good time. I'd have thought you'd be happy just to see your mother. A bit rude, to ignore her, aren't you going to say hello?"

"Mummy." Sherlock said stiffly, meeting her eyes, his own doing his best to convey _'keep calm and still, we'll have you out of this soon'_ to her.

' _I know_ ' her eyes said back, looking with pride at both her sons.

"Now where's Molly?" Sherlock hefted his weapon higher to show he was serious.

Oberstein flicked the safety off the gun held to their mother's head to show he was too.

"I make the demands here. Weapons down. Now."

"As you wish." Mycroft said placatingly, his eyes flicking to his brother's, and they bowed in sync to place their guns on the floor.

If Oberstein had been paying closer attention to anything other than his two adversaries standing before him, he might have noticed that the door hadn't swung completely shut behind them. He might have realised they hadn't come alone, and might have noticed the gun poking through the gap in the door, given a clear shot by Sherlock and Mycroft bending down.

But he didn't, not until he felt the pain of a bullet ripping through his wrist, sending the gun flying from his hand and spinning across the floor. He screamed in pain, clutching his damaged wrist to his chest. To her credit though, Mrs Holmes didn't react at all to the roar of a gun echoing in the cavernous space, only flinched slightly as his blood splattered her face.

The brothers straightened back up, leaving their weapons behind anyway, as Mycroft rushed to free their mother, closely followed by John to check her for injuries, and Sherlock went for Oberstein. He grabbed him by the collar with one hand, the other hovering over his damaged hand, ready to inflict more pain if necessary.

"You didn't answer my question." He ground out.

To his surprise, Oberstein just chuckled weakly, pressing a button on a small remote hidden in his uninjured hand. Sherlock let go and backed up quickly, half expecting some kind of explosives. Instead, there was a burst of light from above as a ceiling mounted projector fired up, projecting onto the wall what seemed to be live footage of Molly, perched on a bed in a small room. She jumped to her feet however as the door to her cell opened and in walked the last man standing from the group who had harassed her, the very one who had taken the lead in doing so. He turned and locked the door behind him.

"No!" Sherlock breathed, before bursting into action, running for the door the man had left through, but not before stopping to scoop up Oberstein's gun.

* * *

 _AN: Wow, so many followers now, and reviews, thanks for reviews on the last chapter to deby44, amherendeen and halfpastlate :)_

 _Have just noticed my section divides haven't been making it through formatting, will put them in from now on to save confusion._


	10. Chapter 9 - No Hesitation

_AN: If this seems familiar, jump back and read the previous, chapter 8. Usually I check whenever I post that it's the right one, but yesterday I rushed it and didn't check and posted this one early. Oops._

* * *

 **Chapter 9 - No Hesitation**

"Hello again, Dollface. Did you miss me?"

 _Did you miss me._ Did he have to pick those words? As if the presence of the known rapist who harassed her wasn't enough, and hearing the lock clicking shut didn't send her heart hammering with fear, he just had to throw in a phrase that would forever remind her of her evil ex, just to completely shake her already frayed nerves.

"St... st... Stay away from me!" She stuttered as he turned and started advancing on her.

"Oh I don't think that's gonna happen, do you? I've been waiting a long time for this you know, since he first showed me your picture. Said I could have you, but I'd have to wait. Now the waiting is over."

Molly backed up as much as she could in the small room, steering well away from the bed, even though part of her knew it wouldn't matter to an animal like him.

"No. I ... I won't let you. And.. And Sherlock will be here soon, and he'll stop you." She hoped.

"Sherlock is a little busy right now, it's just you and me." He was within arms reach of her now, and she didn't have anywhere else to go, backed into a corner. He raised a hand to stroke her cheek. "Relax, Doll, you might even like it. Everyone knows you're a slut for him, and word on the street is you even put out for Moriarty. So be a good little bitch, and put on a good show for the cameras."

His eyes flicked up with a grin to the camera she already knew was there, but her eyes followed briefly anyway. They intended Sherlock to see this no doubt.

Alright, then, a good show he'd get.

A little over three years ago, just after his dive from the roof of St. Bart's, Sherlock had stayed in her flat for a couple of days. To make final preparations for his trip and make sure the heat died down first. He was fast asleep (in her bed, while she took the sofa) one morning as she left to get some extra groceries, but when she returned he had rearranged all the furniture in her living room against the wall, apparently to make space for either the martial arts or interpretive dance he was engaged in. He barely glanced at her as she edged around the room with the shopping bags to get to the kitchen, but her curiosity got the better of her as she put the bags down on the table.

"What are you doing?" She had to ask.

"Bartitsu. It's an English variation on several martial art disciplines." He informed her, moving fluidly from one position into the next with his eyes closed.

"Oh, okay." She carried on putting the shopping away for a bit, until the need to break the silence overcame her "I always planned to learn some sort of martial art for self defence when I got my own place in London, but I never got around to it."

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he slid back to standing, staring at her incredulously. "You're a single woman living alone in London and taking the tube to work, also alone, and you don't know _any_ self defence?"

"I've got by alright without it. And I do have pepper spray in my purse." Molly shrugged.

But Sherlock shook his head. "This won't do. I'll just have to teach you myself. Leave the shopping, come on, front and centre." He pointed to the space in front of himself.

"What, now? No, Sherlock, you don't have to... You have important stuff to do for your trip I'm sure. I can wait until you get back or... or sign up to classes while you're gone or something. There's no rush." Molly quickly declined, feeling blood rush to her cheeks at the idea of doing such an intimate physical activity with Sherlock.

"Of course there is! I thought you realised what you were getting yourself into when you signed up for this, Molly. If anything goes wrong, if they realise you helped me fake my death they will come for you. Of course Mycroft will have people watching you in case anything like that happens, but still. I couldn't possibly leave you unable to defend yourself." He moved over to her as he spoke, eyes fixing her with the seriousness of the situation, until he was gazing down into her eyes, driving any idea of resisting out of her mind.

"Okay." She said breathlessly, swallowing to try and get her voice and heart back under control. "What do I do?"

Sherlock grinned and rapidly backed up into the middle of the room again, beckoning her after him.

"Try and hit me."

"What?"

"Do it."

If she had any notion that it was romantic of Sherlock to insist on staying to help her learn to defend herself, it was swiftly driven from her mind as, almost as soon as she swung, she found her back forcefully hitting the ground, Sherlock's long limbs wrapped around her in a tight pin, which he tightened almost to the point of pain around her throat, before just as suddenly retracting and standing back over her.

"That was a Single Leg Takedown and Clock Choke from the Jujitsu discipline. Up you get and try it on me this time."

They spent almost the whole day at it, him teaching her how to takedown and subdue an enemy.

"I won't actually have to break someone's arm, will I?" Molly asked breathlessly as he showed her a pin that would put her in a position to do just that. He twisted out of her hold to look her in the eyes sternly.

"Molly, listen carefully, because if you don't keep this in mind, everything I've taught you today with be for nothing." He began, capturing her full attention "If you find yourself under attack you _must not hesitate_ to do what is necessary to save yourself, understand? Because they won't hesitate to hurt you, and even with what I've taught you, the chances of you fending off a stronger male attacker or more than one is very slim, so you must take any opportunity presented to you, and make the most of it. **No hesitation**."

That wasn't all the advice he had for her. Whenever she got too out of breath and needed a minute he would fill the gap in action with words.

"Know your strengths and weaknesses. Your small stature and nervous disposition are a weakness that makes you an easy target, but they're also a strength. They won't expect you to resist, so if you're quick you can end the fight before it begins."

"There's no such thing as the 'Queensbury rules' outside of the boxing ring, no shame in fighting dirty. If your attacker is male, which is statistically more likely, a knee to the groin is the quickest way to incapacitate, so do it. Scum like that doesn't deserve to pass on their genetics anyway."

"Be aware of your surroundings, it's full of dangers and opportunities. Don't let yourself get cornered and keep your eye out for anything you can use as a weapon. With any luck they'll come for you in the morgue, you know your way around a scalpel."

They kept on until dark, Sherlock barely agreeing to stop for meals. Finally, when she was battered, bruised, and throughly exhausted from their training he declared her 'passable' and allowed her to crawl away for a long soothing bath and bed.

When she awoke he was gone. The only trace of him was her laptop browser, open on several sites for self defence tips and classes.

She wished she'd followed his implied instructions and signed up for one now. If Sherlock wasn't coming, Molly had no choice but to fight for herself. She tried to call to mind everything that he taught her, but most of it was no good to her with her hands cuffed.

She raised her hands, knocking away his and hiding her face behind her arms, giving the impression of cowering. Sure enough he just laughed at her pathetic attempts, grabbing the chain between her handcuffs and using it to pull her hands further up, pinning them against the wall above her head, before swooping in for a savage and brutal kiss. As his other hand made its way down her body her resolve strengthened. _No hesitation_. As Sherlock predicted he wasn't expecting her to fight back, leaving his legs wide open as he pressed against her.

She felt no shame kneeing him between them.

When he recoiled in pain, letting go of her hands, she wasted no time in bringing her arms down to settle around his shoulders, before slipping around him and yanking back, using her cuffs as a garrotte. Now all she had to do was hold on.

Easier said than done. Her wrists, already chaffed from a night in the cuffs, screamed in pain as the metal bit into them, while he pulled at it trying to loosen the choking force on his throat, but she didn't loosen her grip. He drove his elbows into her sides, he stamped on her feet and kicked back at her, even tried slamming her backwards against the wall, but she just screwed her eyes shut and held on with all her strength, which after years of moving bodies in the morgue was more than her size would suggest.

After what seemed like an age, but she knew was probably only minutes, his struggling became weaker, and then stopped altogether, his sudden weight pulling her down to the floor, legs trapped under him. She knew he was just unconscious, not dead, yet. She could let go and he'd survive, but stay down. But she couldn't. Couldn't open her eyes, couldn't relax her grip, couldn't move at all, paralysed by fear and uncertainty. She couldn't let go or he might wake up and hurt her. Even as she heard the door rattle, and knew someone was coming for her, she couldn't let go. If it was his friends maybe they'd leave her alone if they saw what she was capable of. And they wouldn't be able to get to her if she didn't let go.

"Molly!" A familiar voice broke through the haze of her panic, and her eyes snapped open to focus on Sherlock, halted at the door staring at her, a gun in his hand aimed at the unconscious man in her arms. "Molly, it's okay. It's okay, you can let go, I've got him."

Taking a big breath, as if coming up from underwater, Molly slackened her grip, shoving the man off her legs and jumping to her feet, to run to Sherlock. She ran straight into his arms, which tightened around her as she burst into noisy sobs, though his gun hand and eyes never left the man on the floor.

"It's okay, you did well, Molly. You did well."


	11. Chapter 10 - The End of One Story

**Chapter 10 - The End of One Story is the Start of Another**

The house was quiet when John got in, and he hoped it was because Nat was actually sleeping for once. He didn't call out just in case, and made his way stealthily upstairs to the nursery. As he suspected the light was out, the cd of lullabies Sherlock had recorded for them on his violin was playing on low volume, and he could just make out from the doorway his daughters little chest rising and falling. Smiling to himself he backed quietly out of the room, closing the door behind him, and carried on down the hall to his and Mary's room. The door was slightly open, and he slipped in to see Mary with his back to him, shoving what he called her 'assassin kit' in the back of the wardrobe. It was very rare he could take her by surprise in anything, so he took delight in sneaking up behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist.

"Hello sweetheart."

Next thing he knew he slammed into the wall, all of Mary's weight pinning him there and her arm over his windpipe for just a second, before recognition sunk in.

"John! For goodness sake, what were you thinking sneaking up on an ex-assassin! I could have hurt you." She fretted, brushing down his wrinkled top.

"I could have stopped you." He grinned back, capturing her arms and leaning in for a peck on the lips. "What's all this anyway, I didn't see you at the warehouse." He nodded to her gear, still part hanging out of the wardrobe.

"No, it was just... in case I didn't hear from you within an hour of you going in, in case you needed back up." She explained, attempting a nonchalant shrug, though she couldn't completely hide her worry, the little wrinkle in her forehead that appeared whenever her old career came up. "Then when you called with the all clear Natasha was kicking up a stink because she was overtired and I've only just got her down to sleep, so I could come and put this away."

"Very thoughtful of you." He kissed her forehead, trying to assure her that it was all fine. "I hope we haven't woken her again, crashing about."

"She'd already be screaming the house down if we had. So..." She grinned, dropping back onto the bed and pulling her knees up to her chest "Come on then, how'd it go? Did you get to use that gun of yours?"

"I did actually." He moved around the bed, pulling the gun out of his waistband and carefully locking it away in a safe box in his bedside cabinet. "Shot a gun out of Oberstein's hand. Very satisfying, he'll probably need surgery to repair the tendon damage in his wrist. Five of the others are sleeping off the heavy sedative in those tranq guns Mycroft and Sherlock had, and the last, the one who was giving Molly so much grief, is in intensive care. He'll live, but might suffer some brain damage. Asphyxiation."

"Sherlock did that?"

"No, actually. I think he'd probably be a lot worse if Sherlock got to him, after what he did to the American who hurt Mrs. Hudson and Magnussen for threatening us." He reminded her, sitting down beside her and reaching down to take off his shoes and socks "This was Molly's work. He was supposed to rape her on video for Sherlock to watch, instead she handed his arse to him and garrotted him with her handcuffs."

"What, Molly? Little Molly from Bart's? Since when has she been capable of... that." Mary looked gobsmacked.

"Well apparently, during his two year absence he spent some time at her flat, teaching her to fight. Y'know, rolling around on her carpet, getting sweaty..." He raised a suggestive eyebrow at her, grinning like a schoolboy.

Mary laughed and swatted him on the arm. "I don't think it's like that."

"Oh it's definitely like that!" John asserted, "I thought he was acting a bit differently to her since his return, but then there was Tom. Now there's not, and you should have _seen_ him on this case, Mary. Was more worried about her than his own mother, and when she was in danger... Well. He's got it bad."

"Oh he's definitely in love with her," Mary agreed, "I just don't think he's owned up to yet. I bet he was a merciless instructor when he was teaching her to fight."

"You're probably right. But whether he owns up to it or not, the cat's well and truly out of the bag now, Molly'd have to be deaf and blind not to notice how he was acting today. And if she thinks she's got a chance, then Sherlock will really have a fight on his hands."

* * *

It was all a bit of a blur to Molly, what had happened after she had let go of that man and clung to Sherlock instead. She remembered being taken outside, sat in the back of an ambulance, and when the EMT had asked her if she needed a physical examination, she hadn't understood what he meant at first - wasn't he already examining her bleeding wrists and other injuries? - and then when she'd realised he meant for rape she'd burst into tears, and Sherlock had rushed over, berating the young man for some time.

At some point Greg had come over, and she went to give him her statement, but he'd just hugged her instead. Someone else came and took her statement, and Greg had held her hand through it. At least, he had been holding her hand to start with, and somewhere along the line Sherlock had appeared again and taken over.

Now she was in Baker Street, in John's chair, a blanket around her shoulders and a mug of cooling tea in her hand that she seemed to remember a tearful Mrs Hudson putting there. Violin music floated over from the window, where Sherlock stood, staring out into the darkness as if standing guard. He glanced over at her and seemed to double take at her looking back at him, turning around and watching her with his sharp verdigris eyes, the similarity to his Mother's startling.

"Your mum!" She blurted, realising she hadn't seen her, or didn't think she'd seen her in the chaos surrounding their rescue.

Sherlock stopped playing. "Mycroft is escorting her home to Surrey. She's perfectly alright."

"Oh, good." Molly sighed in relief. "It was nice getting to know her. I mean... Not nice under the circumstances, but still, she's - "

"Quite ordinary, I know." Sherlock interrupted, turning his back on her again as he put his violin back in its case.

"Actually I was going to say amazing. She was so calm, it was like nothing phased her."

"Mm... Probably because she didn't understand what was going on." Sherlock shrugged.

"No she understood. She even said..." Molly hesitated. It was a conversation she both feared and needed to have. "She thought that... Sherlock, why did they take me?" She changed tactic at the end.

"Because Oberstein's vendetta against my family started when I solved a case that sent his daughter to prison. I understand his wife left him some time ago, she was all he had left. He blames me for separating him from the one woman he cares for, so wanted to get his revenge by hurting and then probably killing a woman I care about. And one Mycroft does, hence Mummy being there." Sherlock explained, taking his own seat opposite her and watching carefully for her reaction to the news.

Molly's heart leapt at his admission that he cared about her, but then that was not new information to her. She'd seen evidence for herself that he cared about her in his own way, but caring about was not the same thing as loving, and that's what she needed to know. She couldn't stop now.

"Yes, but...Your Mum said... She thinks it was because you love me. And not just as in friends, but as in _in_ love with me... Is she right?"

Sherlock said nothing, though his jaw clenched and unclenched. He suddenly became very interested in the cup of (probably cold and days old) tea sat next to him.

"Sherlock?" Molly promoted

"Yes."

Molly drew in a sharp breath, then her brow creased.

"Wait, was that yes as in yes or-"

"Yes." Sherlock stated again firmly, though he didn't look as happy about it as she would have hoped. That didn't stop the joy bubbling up inside Molly though, her eyes immediately getting watery and a massive grin breaking out on her face. She started to get up, opening her mouth to say something in return, but Sherlock cut her off before she could.

"But this changes nothing."

"What do you mean, 'this changes nothing'? She asked shaking her head, though it couldn't remove her manic grin "This changes _everything_! All this time I've been in love with you, thinking you'd never return it, and now you do -"

"It changes **nothing**." Sherlock repeated firmly, his face now decidedly sour looking. "Have you already forgotten what just happened to you? Today is further proof in a long list that caring about people is a mistake for someone like me. Moriarty, Magnussen, Oberstein... I make plenty of enemies in my line of work and there will always be those who try to get to me through those I care about. Just being around me is enough to put a target on your back, but to be with me would be suicide, Molly, and you can't possibly be that desperate, I know at least two of your male colleagues are interested in you."

Molly shook her head in denial, the joy in her smothered by his words and her tears were no longer of happiness. "No... No I don't want them. I want you! You can't do this to me, you can't tell me you love me then tell me we can't be together! It's not...!"

"Then you shouldn't have asked. This is for your own good, Molly."

"No! I won't accept that!" She was on her feet now, feeling like she was going to burst from all the emotion inside her. She wanted to shake him, to make him _see_ , but kept her hands clenched at her sides instead. "If today has proved anything it's that I can take care of myself! If you want to protect me do it by teaching me more self defence while you're with me-"

"It won't be enough!" Sherlock roared back at her, on his feet now too, bringing them almost chest to chest, or rather chest to face as he loomed over her. "There's only so much those lessons can do for someone of your stature, especially against trained killers! And unless you're within inches of your opponent it'll do you no good against someone who's armed."

Molly needed only a second to consider this. "Then **I** need to be armed. You could get me a gun, and teach me to use it? I only need to know how to shoot and aim, I already know where to aim."

"And you think you could do that? Shoot? To kill? Last time I taught you the idea of breaking someone's arm was enough to give you pause." Sherlock reminded her. "What makes you think you could pull the trigger on someone?"

"Today makes me think it." Molly's eyes dropped to their shoes, almost toe to toe on the carpet, not able to look at someone for the coming confession "When I... When you came in and stopped me, I knew how close I was to killing that guy, I could almost count down the seconds he had left, each one diminishing his chances of recovery. If you hadn't come in, I wouldn't have let go. I would have killed him and it didn't scare me at all. I mean, I was scared, scared that if I let go he'd wake up, or scared the others would come in to finish what he started, but I wasn't afraid of killing him. Of the fact I might soon have been holding a corpse. I've dealt with plenty in the morgue, what's one more? And... And most the ones in my morgue don't deserve it. I've autopsied children, Sherlock, and it always hurts, how innocent they are. But this guy... He raped and killed that girl who was on my table a few days ago. He would have done it to me. I... I guess what I'm trying to say is he was a bad man, and I would have killed him and it would have been easy. And I could do it again if I had to."

She looked back up at Sherlock to gauge his reaction, slightly afraid of how psychopathic that might have sounded. She gasped at the look at Sherlock's face, all the walls that she'd only got a glimpse over before were gone, his emotions writ bare on his face. Pain and sorrow, warring with wonder and love. His hands seemed to be itching to reach for her, yet he didn't allow himself to, shaking his head and closing his eyes, as if trying to regain control.

"Killing is the easy part, it's sleeping afterwards that's hard." He looked back to her, finally letting his hands come up to her shoulders. "I don't want that for you."

Molly's reply was to close the distance between them, hugging him tightly around the waist. His arms slid tighter around her in response, one large hand cradling her head to his chest.

"This is all conjecture anyway. It might not even be necessary." She whispered, afraid speaking any louder would break the spell. "You'll protect me, I know you will. I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

For once, Sherlock had nothing to say to that, he just held her, knowing she'd won; he wasn't sure he could ever let her go now.

* * *

"Mummy, you've just come back from being abducted and being right in the middle of an admittedly short firefight. Why are you _cooking_? Surely this qualifies you for a night off, get a takeaway or something." Mycroft protested from the doorway of his parents' cosy little cottage.

"They don't deliver all the way out here, and someone has to feed your father. Besides, you should have seen what passed for a meal in that horrible place, I'm famished!" His mother reasoned, bustling happily about the kitchen, pulling out pots and pans.

"I'm certain I could make them. Or I could have someone pick something up -"

"Nonsense, I'm already cooking, now. Sit down Mikey, you're making the place look untidy." She pulled out a chair for him on the way to the fridge, and Mycroft dropped down into with an exasperated sigh and eye roll.

"If it makes her happy, I say let her get on with it." His Father leaned over to whisper, smiling at his wife's antics "You'd understand if you had a woman of your own."

"Yes Mikey, about that." His Mother was quick to jump in, her sharp ears missing nothing her husband said. "As flattering as it is to know I'm still loved by my eldest, I do wish you'd find yourself someone to settle down with, you're not getting any younger you know. If it's possible for Sherlock it's possible for you too."

"As I've told you _repeatedly,_ Iam married to my work, Mother, It's a 24 hour job and requires my full attention."

"Yes, but Mikey dear-"

"We just worry that she'll be an unfaithful mistress to you." His Father said, fixing a kindly stare on his son.

"Exactly." His Mother continued "You think I didn't recognise that man who had a gun to my head? He was a politician - someone of importance -once, like you, and now look at him."

"Your career can't last forever, Mycroft. And when it's all over, we worry that you won't know what to do with yourself. Someone to go home to might make the transition easier."

If arguing with Mummy was infuriating, with her persistence and Father's reasonableness, getting tag-teamed by the pair of them was an excersise in futility.

"Even if I was inclined to start looking for a woman now, where do you propose I begin? My job doesn't allow me much time to frequent cafes or _pubs_ " he said the word with as much distaste as he could muster "even if I was inclined to."

"Oh I don't think you'll have to look that far." Father said with an amused glint in his eye, looking over Mycroft's shoulder at the door way. Mycroft followed his gaze to see his faithful assistant standing there waiting for him. If she had heard their conversation and his father's implication, her face held no sign of it.

"The perimeter sweep has been completed, sir, as have the security upgrades. Shall I call for your car?"

Before Mycroft could open his mouth to gratefully accept, his Mother's head shot up from the stove.

"Of course not, he's staying for dinner, aren't you Mikey? I'm making your favourite - toad in the hole, with caramelised onion and cider gravy. Oh but you're welcome to join us... I don't believe I ever caught your name?"

"Alice." She answered, causing Mycroft's eyebrows to shoot up at her giving her real name to anyone. "And I'd love to."

Fighting a cringe, Mycroft got to his feet, pulling out the remaining chair for Alice to sit down.

"I apologise in advance for this embarrassment, and I promise I shall make it up to you." He muttered as he pushed the chair in after her.

"How about dinner? In a proper restaurant, next Friday. I'll clear your calendar."

All Mycroft could do was blink in amazement, as his parents beamed.

* * *

 _AN: For some reason though I'm getting emails alerting me to reviews, they aren't showing up here, and it's not letting me reply to them. So Thanks to nowsusieq and hatondog for your reviews :) and thanks very much to everyone favouriting and following, there does seem to be a lot of you now, and it makes me very happy to see._

 _Just the epilogue to go now, but it's been wonderful sharing this with you guys, and I might just be pursuaded to post a little sequel story._


	12. Epilogue

_AN: Okay guys, this is it, the end of this story. I've already made a start on a fluffy one-shot to follow it up, hopefully that'll be up in the next week or so. Until then..._

* * *

 **Epilogue**

Molly had had a week off work to recover from her trauma, and was more than ready to be back. Thankfully everyone else had chipped in to make sure she didn't have a mountain of paperwork to catch up on when she got back, and she was quickly able to dive back into the research she had been working on before.

It was around midday that Sherlock came swooping into the lab, catching her arms and twirling her around in the manic energy he always wore when a case was going well, before planting a quick kiss on her lips and letting go, settling down at his favourite microscope to examine a sample he pulled out of his pocket.

"Good case?" Molly giggled, moving her own work over to work closer to him.

"Absolutely brilliant! A genetically engineered virus, Molly! Programmed to target specific genetic markers. Of course I'd heard such a thing existed, but I never thought I'd get a chance to examine one. The police are only interested in using the sample to devise a cure, which is simple enough, but there's so much more we can learn from it. I might even be able to trace it back to the lab where it was produced."

Molly smiled and let him get on with it, sneaking glances at him every now and then as she did her own work. It was late afternoon, and Sherlock had almost completed his analysis of the virus by the time Molly got up the nerve to ask the question on her mind.

"Um... Sherlock? I was wondering... When are we going to go on a date?"

"A date?" Sherlock looked up from his work, wearing a confused look.

"Yeah, a date, now that we're... Y'know, together?" Assuming they were together, she hadn't misread his acceptance had she?

"Oh... I thought we were just going to skip that bit." Sherlock replied, relieving her of her worry.

"You mean jump straight into snogging and groping on the sofa?" She teased. She was rewarded to see his eyes widen in shock, and a hint of a blush staining his cheekbones, which he quickly tried to hide behind the microscope again.

"Maybe you're right, we should start at the beginning." He mumbled.

Molly bit her lip, thinking for a second. He didn't seem comfortable with either option, and the last thing she wanted to do was make him uncomfortable, but what did it mean? Feeling tense, like she was setting herself up for a potential rejection, Molly tried again.

"Sherlock, what is it that you want from... This?" She gestured between the two of them, "Because it kind of feels like you don't really... Want it?"

Sherlock lifted his head from the microscope slightly, but didn't look directly at her, his eyes were unfocused, and she knew he was thinking about it, so just waited and let him.

"I want what John and Mary have with each other." He eventually said.

"John and Mary ...are married... Is that a proposal?" Molly said, half in jest and half trying to figure out what he meant by that.

"Yes - no - Marriage is irrelevant, though I suppose what I want is generally a state found in married couples." Sherlock mused " I mean how comfortable they are. I just want to be myself, for us to be ourselves, but together. Without all the pomp and ceremony of courtship."

Molly nodded slowly, taking it in. She could see what he meant, and it made sense. Years ago she would have balked at the idea, wanting to be wined and dined and have a proper fairytale romantic relationship. But now, she found she could do without it. As exciting as it was, it was always so tiring, the first stages of dating - worrying about what to wear and what impression it'll give, how to get through dinner without making some awful morgue humour joke - and it was all pretty much irrelevant with Sherlock anyway. Neither needed to impress each other, they'd already covered most areas of conversation that came up on first dates, and they'd even tackled the dreaded 'L' word. It could be so easy to just slip into the 'comfortable' stage of a relationship.

"I was thinking of staying in tonight, watching crap tv and catching up on medical journals." She proposed.

"I like crap tv, and I've been meaning to write up an article for my website on the most common household biohazards." Sherlock replied casually.

"I get in at 7"

"It's a date."

* * *

Sherlock brought flowers at Mrs Hudson's insistence, and Molly got takeaway. Sherlock told her all about the case with the virus, and she talked him through her current research. They figured out the ending within ten minutes of a crime drama on the TV, and picked out which gun Molly would have online. Sherlock left her with a satisfyingly long kiss goodnight, and an invitation to stop by Baker Street tomorrow, if convenient.

It was the best date she'd ever had.


End file.
